Magic Mumbles

by N. C. Lewis

  Stepping away from the table, I strolled around the rooftop terrace, stopping occasionally to enjoy the vistas. This is the life, I thought. If I could make a little more money, I'd be able to enjoy it more often.

  As I sat in a wicker chair under the shade of a broad-leafed palm tree, a thought niggled its way into my mind. The idea struck me with such force I jumped up and hurried to the elevator.

  Lunchtime over, there were several corporate types waiting to go down. The elevator arrived, doors opened, and a surge of business-suited individuals rushed inside. The last dark-suited person squeezed into the elevator and the doors closed. I didn't join the throng.

  I pressed the call button. Several minutes later the elevator arrived, and I stepped in—the only occupant. Over the menu board my hand hovered, eventually settling on Gym & Courts.

  The elevator doors opened to a brightly lit hallway. To the left, the gymnasium with weight machines and treadmills. To the right, the tennis courts. I turned right.

  The clubhouse sat at one end of an upstairs viewing area that skirted around the edge of the entire indoor courts. It allowed patrons to watch a game without disturbing the players down below. A handful of people dressed in tennis garb clustered around the clubhouse sipping iced tea and conversing.

  As I walked around the viewing area, a sense of disappointment filled me. Most courts were empty. Then, over on the far side in one of the distant courts, I spotted who I was looking for. Bryant Reynolds, and he was with a woman, a tall Amazonian who towered over him like a giant colossus.

  I positioned myself so I was above the court. They wouldn't be able to see me unless they looked up. The woman was forty-something, slender, with flawless brown skin, a turned-up nose, hazel eyes, and shoulder-length, curly, black hair. In a word, she was stunning.

  Bryant was showing her how to hold the tennis racket and strike the ball. I looked on as she awkwardly swung at a ball tossed underhand by Bryant. She missed.

  "Keep your head down and eye on the ball," Bryant hissed.

  He tossed another ball. With jerky, spasmodic movements she swung the racket and again missed. Bryant repeated his instructions in a louder voice.

  "I'm trying my best," she said, her voice silky smooth like a radio announcer.

  "Liza, you put more energy into eating your lunch. Concentrate and try harder," snapped Bryant.

  He lobbed another ball. Liza swung again with all her might and missed once more.

  Bryant trotted forward, and on the tips of his toes shouted into her face with disgust, "Even a blind hog can find an acorn once in a while. Hit the ball, damn you!"

  "Darling, I'm tired. Why don't you continue your practice, and I'll wait for you in the clubhouse?" she suggested.

  "Clubhouse! You're not going to sit in there and drink iced tea. Liza, you're going to play tennis. Now when I throw the ball, hit it."

  "But, Bryant, I'm tired and thirsty. Let's rest for a little while." She was pleading now.

  "I've told you before, push past the pain. Now, I'm going to toss the ball and you are going to hit it."

  Suddenly, she snapped. "Bryant, we're finished. It's over!"

  Bryant swiveled his face upwards. "Now stop acting like an idiot. I'm going to throw the ball and you're going to hit it."

  Liza stiffened. "I wanted to break it to you gently. Bryant, darling, I've been a silly thing, and I regret it. I'm going back to him."

  Bryant's body jerked as if he had touched a live, electric wire, but his voice was silky smooth. "Liza, I totally understand and accept your decision. Let's be adults about this and agree to part amicably."

  Liza let out a deep breath and smiled.

  "Thirsty?" asked Bryant. He didn't wait for an answer but rushed toward the racket case, fished around, pulling out a deep-mauve glass bottle with a cork stopper.

  "Here, drink this. It's my energy tonic," he said in a quiet, calm voice.

  Liza grabbed the bottle, popped the cork, sniffed, and with half-closed eyes, gulped down the contents.

  "Yum, it's even more tasty than the last one you gave me. What did you say it's called again?"

  Bryant beamed, then did a rather curious thing. He returned to the racket case, pulled out a cell phone and peered at it. All the while Liza looked on, but she didn't move a muscle. After a minute or two, a high-pitched beep radiated from the cell phone. Bryant replaced it back in the racket case and trotted toward Liza.

  "Now," he said with rising confidence, "shall we play tennis?"

  Liza smiled in a hazy kind of a way. Bryant took her by the arm. The little man was grinning now, one of those "cat that got the cream" smirks—all teeth and no joy.

  Suddenly, Liza pulled away.

  "You put something in my drink. That's what you did; that's what you've been doing. What trick are you trying to pull?" Her voice was low, the words slurred but audible.

  "Liza dear, I have money," Bryant said in a coaxing voice. "Liza loves money, doesn't she?" Bryant's grin grew larger.

  "No, no. I told you it's over. Get away from me, you creep!"

  Bryant reached out for her arm. She shook him off.

  "Liza! I've got money." Bryant's voice was tinged with alarm.

  "Yes, I want your money," she said in a cold, hard voice. "But I don't want you." She turned and stormed off the court.

  Bryant's grin was gone. "You won't get away from me that easy," he screeched like an angry tomcat. "He can never have you back. Listen to me. Liza, come back here, now. I command you to come back here and listen."

  But Liza didn't listen, nor did she look back.

  Chapter 9

  Back in the Tahoe I started the engine and turned the air-conditioner on high. As the air turned from hot, to warm, to cold, I half closed my eyes and savored the delicious image of an upscale wedding at Ealing Homestead. My mind raced ahead of me, compiling lists of people to contact, repairs to be made, and totaling up expenses. Seven or eight thousand dollars after costs I figured as a rough estimate. Not bad for an afternoon's work on a rooftop café.

  It wasn't long before my thoughts drifted to Bryant Reynolds, the mysterious man with the salt-and-pepper curls, and Liza. A pang of jealousy lurched in my stomach as I admitted her looks were worth fighting over. Then I felt better by telling myself that a woman who dates Bryant Reynolds for his money is of dubious character. But then again, I thought, why else would a woman date that repulsive little man?

  "Moozoos to celebrate," I said aloud, shifting the gear stick into drive, and pointing the Tahoe toward downtown Medlin Creek.

  Moozoos Café, Medlin Creek’s independent coffee shop, was found on Creek Street, a flat stretch of land bordered by the Riverwalk. A sea of little shops sold handcrafted goods and farm-fresh foods. At one end, a scruffy patch of lawn crammed with food trucks blared country music, a popular spot where tourists mingled with locals during the early evening hours. At the other end, on a gentle slope that takes one down to the Medlin Creek River, was a flea market with little, wooden stalls filled with knickknacks and curiosities.

  As I turned onto Creek Street, I remembered the hamper for Gratia Violeta. Gratia who knew everyone and their business. I parked in a space in front of her hairdresser salon. With hamper in hand, I scurried into the store.

  The scent of mint, eucalyptus, and citrus mingled with the undertones of chemicals, hairdryers and priming agents assaulted the nostrils with such vigor that even with your eyes closed and ears stopped there was little doubt you were inside a hair salon.

  The young girl at the front desk greeted me with a friendly smile. I recognized her as a student in one of my classes. "Howdy, Doctor Stratford, go straight through. Gratia is in the main salon."

  I strolled into the waiting area with its comfortable couches and coffee table piled with fashion magazines. An elderly lady with blue-rinsed hair, seated in an easy chair, flicked through the latest edition of Vogue. She didn't notice as I strolled by and into the main salon.

  The gentle hum of
hair dryers intermingled with the occasional snip of scissors and crackle of tin foil, announced the area where Gratia and her team performed their craft. A radio played low in the background, tuned into MCR 101.1 FM, the local radio station. Johnny Spinner, the DJ, was talking with great excitement ahead of the next song.

  If you're going to Mysterious Malcolm's Magical Masquerade show tonight, a reminder it begins at 7:30 p.m. Large crowds are expected. I'll be there, and here is an inside secret. Use the parking lot at the side of the Lilly Building rather than the three-story garage, and you'll be in and out in a flash. Now, here's a little classic Kyle Park…

  By the window, Gratia worked on a teenage girl's hair. Letting out the occasional satisfied, "ah-ha," she performed her craft with intense and breathless concentration. Everything she touched was handled very gently at the ends of her slender fingers. It was as if the hair, the scissors, and the gel were little fragments of priceless antiquities. There was no talk, not even a glance my way, and when she stepped back to view her creation she smiled with a deep sense of satisfaction.

  Then she said something to the teenage girl, called over an assistant, and turned to scan the salon for other clients needing her artistic touch. She saw me, gave a little wave and bustled over.

  "Ollie." She smiled, looking from the hamper to me. "For the Sisters of the Creek's silent auction?"

  "Yep, put it together this morning."

  "Bless your heart, you're the first," she said, breaking out into a big grin. "Organizing a fundraiser can be a little chaotic. I appreciate you getting your hamper to me early."

  Her eyes shifted to scan the salon. They moved in quick, darting movements, and I knew then there was something she wanted to say. The assistant busied herself finishing the teenager's hair, and the other clients were absorbed in magazines or staring into tablet computers.

  "Ollie, I don't want to alarm you," she said in a lowered voice. Once again, her eyes darted around the salon. "But your dear man friend is behaving kinda odd."

  I didn't have a "dear man friend," but protesting the fact would only make a nice bit of future gossip for Gratia to spread.

  "Which man friend are we talking about?"

  Gratia's eyebrows shot up, and I instantly regretted my statement.

  "Peter Travis, of course," said Gratia, narrowing her eyes in a knowing way.

  "Peter Travis," I repeated. It was clear I had been spotted by one of Gratia's sources dining with Peter, and other members of the Speaker Circle at the College Arms pub where we go after a meeting. Now, in the gossip mill of Medlin Creek, Peter was "my man friend."

  With a superior smile, Gratia continued, "Miss Jenny Jones from the flower and gift shop spotted Peter in the alley by Moozoos. He was wearing a red cape and had wires sticking out of his head like antlers on a reindeer."

  I sighed. "Peter works in technology," I said by way of explanation. "They have a different sense of fashion, all flip-flops, baggy shorts and bushy beards, or else the same outfit every day, so as not to waste brain energy thinking about what to wear. You know how that goes."

  Gratia nodded. "But what about the wires sticking out of his head?"

  I didn't have an answer to that one, so I changed the subject.

  "I saw Bryant Reynolds at the Hill Country Hotel this afternoon. Did you know he plays tennis?"

  Gratia wrinkled her nose. "I'd like to say something nice about that young man, but I can't. I remember him as a child. He was an altar boy, had an evil streak made worse by a nasty temper. Bryant’s so spoiled he expects spoon-feeding."

  "He loves tennis," I offered, trying to turn the conversation in a more positive direction.

  "Hmm." Gratia's eyes half closed. She was silent for so long that I thought she had drifted off to sleep. "Last Friday, Bryant was spotted at the Driftwood Herbal Store."

  Wow! I said to myself. A person can't shop without their movements checked and reported back to Gratia's salon. I half wondered whether her store was at the center of some covert, spy operation. Gratia knew things she had no business knowing. But since she was willing to talk, I figured I may as well know them too.

  "The Driftwood Herbal Store, is it worth a visit?" I was leaning forward.

  Gratia pursed her lips. "It's run by a witch."

  "A witch!"

  Gratia's lips twisted into a grin. "At least that's what Glinda Jadis calls herself. Glinda is another odd one."

  "Are you kidding me? Her name is Glinda, like the good witch of the North in the Wizard of Oz?"

  "Yep, Glinda is from Medlin Creek, originally. Her mother Locasta lives with her above the store. Come to think of it, she was odd, too. All dark, flowing gowns and pointy hats." Gratia paused. "Locasta still carries one of those about with her." She pointed a slender, manicured finger toward the wicker basket of the hamper.

  I looked sharply for signs of sarcasm in Gratia's face, found none visible, but still, a witch called Glinda selling poisonous potions to evil locals egged on by her mother, Locasta. The whole thing seemed a little far-fetched, even for the rumor mill of Medlin Creek. I wondered when Gratia would bring up the subject of broomsticks.

  I was about to dismiss the whole story as idle gossip when Gratia lowered her voice to a serious whisper. "A former altar boy like Bryant has no business in an ungodly place like that." Then she half turned to stare out into the salon, the color draining from her face. "Bryant Reynolds as a boy was wicked, but Bryant Reynolds, the man, scares me in the way that churns the stomach, if you know what I mean."

  Chapter 10

  It was too hot to walk, so I climbed back into the truck and drove to the car lot behind Moozoos Café. It was close to 2:30 in the afternoon with the temperature pushing toward the high for the day. A cloud of humidity had swirled across the Hill Country cloaking the town of Medlin Creek in its muggy grip.

  I climbed out. The black tarmac surface radiated heat like a stoked-up furnace. Instantly, a sheen of perspiration covered my face.

  The sign to Moozoos flashed in bright, electronic letters OPEN. The narrow entrance—easily missed from the street—led to a little café, not very well lit, with huge plate-glass windows that looked out onto Creek Street.

  The doorbell pinged with a gentle note, and the air filled with the smell of hot coffee, mingled with traces of cinnamon rolls. The café was empty. At a table by the window, the barista peered into a copy of the Medlin Creek Times. At the tinkle of the doorbell he looked up, gave a friendly wave—his lopsided eyes gleaming.

  "Ollie, nice to see you today. What will be your pleasure?"The barista's chin, pointed like the end of a carrot, twitched as he stood up and strolled over to the bar.

  "Creek Jolt," I said. The drink was Moozoos signature beverage—an indulgent combination of Kenyan coffee loaded with fresh cream alongside a heavy dash of brandy.

  Nodding in a knowing way, the barista said, "Celebrating today? Dee Dejon was in earlier, said she saw you at the Hill Country Hotel."

  The speed at which news traveled in a small town was something to behold. When I lived in New York, Brooklyn to be exact, the activities of my next-door neighbor, for fifteen years remained a mystery. Only after John died did I discover the Johnson's were school teachers. Mrs. Johnson, a high-school history teacher, and Mr. Johnson, a physical education instructor.

  "Yes, I had a business meeting," was all I could muster.

  He placed his hands on his hips. "Dee works as a cleaner at the hotel. She came in with Chris Meaty. Chris waits tables on the rooftop restaurant. She said you and Theodora were excited about a wedding, but she didn't hear the names of the happy couple." The barista's eyes flashed in anticipation.

  "Can't reveal them just yet, I'm sure you understand."

  The disappointed sag of his eyes told me he didn't. "Take a seat and I'll bring your drink over." He busied himself, humming as he went. I chose a table by the window and sat down looking out onto Creek Street.

  "Here you go," the barista said, placing the hot steaming b
everage on the table. I took a sip.

  "Yum, this is even better than I remember."

  The barista smiled, then looked around the empty café like a spotlight searching for an escaped prisoner. "You know Christoph Cleon? No, on second thought, I guess you don't." His lopsided eyes gleamed. He had news and he couldn't help himself but share it, even if I didn't know the person.

  "Well," he continued, "Christoph is a good enough man, but he has his own ideas about money. Christoph stopped by this morning, said his money worries would soon be over, and could I put his drinks on his tab. But he doesn't have one. He said he would pay double, so I opened one for him. I wonder where the money is going to come from."

  I shrugged and took another sip from the cup. "Maybe an inheritance from a deceased relative," I said absentmindedly.

  Rubbing his chin, the barista agreed. "That's what I figured. All that's left is to find out who died."

  I took another sip and nodded. The barista returned to the bar.

  For the next ten minutes, I looked out the window onto Creek Street, content to savor my caffeinated, alcoholic beverage while my mind made lists of things to do.

  Chapter 11

  The gentle ping of the doorbell announcing a customer, disturbed my musings. I looked up. Peter Travis, with another man at his side, was staring at the menu board. Peter held a sports bag in his hand.

  The man was middle-aged with reddish skin, an athletic build, and facial features resembling the surface of Mars. Eyes set deep in their sockets cast dark shadows around his eyelids like the bottomless void of a crater. His nose was bulbous with deep-purple streaks pointing like arrows to a bushy cluster of nasal hair.

  It wasn't until the barista took their order that Peter looked across the café. He grinned as he rushed to the table where I sat. Peter didn’t speak much, but when he did, it was always a little creepy. "Hi, Ollie, it feels good to see all of you today, in the flesh."